


Interuptus

by Cosmicobit



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bottom Aziraphale, Caught in the Act, M/M, smut but humor, unfortunate unnamed demon hunter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 06:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20077498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmicobit/pseuds/Cosmicobit
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are having a bit of passion while a demon hunter lies in wait. Said hunter mistakes a shout for one of distress (it is not) and storms in on what he expects to be a demon and a terrorized, tempted human (wrong again).Written for the prompt "Caught in the act."





	Interuptus

It was probably Aziraphale shouting that did it, come to think of it. Hell has been off his back for a while now, but Crowley likes to think his paranoia hasn’t gotten so lax that he wouldn’t have noticed being watched, so that means something or another must have drawn the hunter in: hence, his suspicions about Aziraphale, who just at present looks a bit pale.

"Angel . . .?”

Aziraphale purses his lips. His body is still hot and tight around Crowley’s, so his focus is divided, but he thinks he can still make enough sense of the expression to know he’ll need to be a little more specific to get anything concrete out of the angel.

“Aziraphale? You all right?”

“Fine, I think . . . Hard to say.” He turns his face back to Crowley’s, and runs his hands from his shoulders down his bare chest.

“I do hope I didn’t just kill him,” he mutters.

This really does put a wrench in things.

Fifteen minutes ago, they were kissing so hard Crowley’s lips bruised, and Aziraphale, without warning, had miracled their clothes off in the moment it took for Crowley to pull in and take a breath (more to smell him, than anything, neither of them had to breathe) and there they had been, corporations pressed together, sweating, on Aziraphale's couch. And Aziraphale had looked up at him and said:

“My dear boy, would you do something for me?”

“Name it,” Crowley growled.

"Ravish me.”

Strangely enough, Crowley had known exactly what he’d meant by that—a reversal of their usual rolls (such that “usual” could apply to beings such as they) and he’d accordingly conveyed his acceptance as the dominant party by descending for a kiss not on Aziraphale’s mouth, but on his neck, which he immediately opened to include his teeth.

Aziraphale gasped. Crowley worked over him with dedication, teeth and tongue and lips and hands, occasionally scraping skin under his nails in such a way that Aziraphale arched and groaned. He liked to be manhandled. Crowley bit his hip and he hissed.

“Going to start swearing, angel?” Crowley had teased, and Aziraphale had answered by shoving his head back down.

Once there, Crowley explored with his tongue, wandering down between the heat of the angels round thighs, tasting him with the unforgiving idle curiosity of someone who had all the time in the world until he struck in such a way that Aziraphale yelped.

“CROWLEY--"

That a set a fire in both of them. Tongue became fingers, yelping became faltering breathes over words like “oh. Yes.” And “more,” and “please!” and Aziraphale had reached up and clutched Crowley’s shoulders with hands too well manicured for his short nails to dig in—perhaps the only reason he didn’t draw blood—and looked into Crowley’s face with something feverish in his eyes and next thing he knew, Crowley was pressing parts of his body inside of parts of Aziraphale’s a little sharply—not that corporations subject to divine willpower couldn’t accommodate it—and Aziraphale had shouted aloud as though wounded only much, much sweeter.

That was probably the moment that motivated the next bit.

Without restraint but with great passion, gazes fixed together, Crowley was slamming his body into Aziraphale’s when two things happened. First, he struck such a point in the angel that his breath burst out of his body and his wings exploded into view, framing his ecstatic face as no angel had ever been conceived of by man. Second, a human being rounded the corner, shouting something about “unhand him" and “incubus” which died on his tongue as what was clearly an angel came into view.

Later, time to actually think would inform Crowley that the fellow was a demon hunter. Not many of those anymore—and this one was reasonably good: judging by the charms on the blade he dropped when what happened next, well, happened, he’ been prepared to deal Crowley a fair amount of damage.

Much later, careful inspection would show signs of the door having been picked, and signs would indicate that the hunter had come in quietly, and waited in ambush in the shop. Had he not thought he’d heard some poor mortal in danger, he could have waited between the stacks for some time. But Aziraphale had cried out, and he’d come running.

For a moment, there was a deeply weird silence. Crowley looked over his shoulder at the hunter, and saw a fellow around thirty staring with wide eyes at Aziraphale, his mouth hanging open. His blade clattered from his hand to the floor.

“Dear Almighty God,” he sputtered, taking in the wings—and perhaps the scene, come to think of it—and that was the last thing he got to say. Hell of a parting remark, really.

Crowley looked back at Aziraphale in time to see him fix a look of indignation on the hunter not seen since the Almighty chewed out Adam in Eden, light like holy fire had flashed in the angels eyes, and Aziraphale snapped something in the language of heaven that predates time which cannot be translated and probably shouldn’t be, pointed at the hunter, and the man had disappeared into a cloud of shimmering dust which consolidated and likewise evaporated in the time it took for Crowley to blink.

Which brings them here.

“If you did kill him,” Crowley offers, and Aziraphale looks mortified, “for what it’s worth, I know the type—that big neck tattoo. He was probably trying to kill me.”

"Oh . . .”

Aziraphale’s consternation suggests that now would be an appropriate time to pull away, and out of him. He gasps a little as Crowley goes, but doesn’t call him back.

They clamber off the couch to go and investigate the knife the hunter dropped—Aziraphale seems to find it distasteful, but he concedes to Crowley’s logic that it might not be a bad tool to have if Hell ever comes calling, and so they hide it in the bookshop's back room.

Aziraphale seats himself on the sofa again, looking put out. He’s still very naked, though he’s tucked his wings away again. Crowley settles beside him.

“Perhaps I should invest in an alarm system,” Aziraphale says.

“You’d set it off every day of your life.”

“I would not! Well, not every day. But first Shadwell, now this . . . And I was having such a good time.”

He turns his very best pout on Crowley, and he has to laugh.

"You hedonist,” he sniggers, and Aziraphale slaps him lightly across the shoulder. He catches his hand, and brings his knuckles to his lips.

“I’m sure we can start over,” Crowley mutters. “Just as soon as you’ve got your fill of worrying.”

“I should worry! I’ve just possibly . . . Smote someone. Heaven will have questions.”

“Then we'd better get back to it before they come to ask them.”

“Crowley!”

He smirks, and turns over Aziraphale’s hand to kiss his palm.

"Unless you like being walked in on,” he adds. Aziraphale rips his hand away to be indignant, but it’s worth it for the consternated look on his face.

Crowley laughs until Aziraphale becomes determined to shut him up again, first with words, then hands—

And then they’re kissing again.


End file.
